Chapter Two
Everything truly beautiful is inaccessible. I would very much like to skydive here, to just break the airplane window right now and bend and twist through the marshmallow whip clouds. I am not sure, though, whether I would open my parachute, or if I’d just succumb to the speed, the air. But, of course, I could not do this; at this altitude, I could not survive more than a few seconds without an air mask, but it would be okay, because if you die in the sky you’re closer to heaven anyways. But I’d have to hit the ground sometime, and I wouldn’t want to. I would just reside here in the clouds forever, remain frozen in time and watch the rest of the world go on with life.
I want nothing more than to pull my canvas and paints out of my bag right now – to paint the way I feel looking at the sky – but the stewardess has already asked me twice not-so-politely to put them away. I think she’s afraid that I’ll spill one of the jars on the pale gray seats, which I worry about also, and not because I’d be ruining the seat but because I’d be wasting my paint.
I catch her glaring over her shoulder at me again, so this time I smile and wave. She blinks, hands and old geezer a package of peanuts, and then walks over to my seat. “What do you want?” she hisses.
“Some hospitality would be nice,” I say, an innocent mask covering my face to hide my smile.
She purses her lips. “What do you want?” she repeats, emphasizing every single syllable, as though she is talking to a small child.
“To paint,” I respond in the exact same tone.
“You’re not allowed. How many times do I have to tell you that before you’ll actually listen to me?”
“How many times do I have to ask before you’ll actually let me?”
She opens her mouth, presumably to say something else snarky, but is interrupted by a soft beep from the front of the cabin. We both look up to see the ‘seatbelts’ light flash on. She smirks at me and walks away. Behind her back, I mock her.
I put my bag of paints in the empty seat next to me and snap it in before I snap in myself. I consider not snapping in at all, but I’m pretty sure that the stewardess is getting very close to throwing me out of the plane.
I sit back deep into the seat, pushing my back against it as though there’s some way I could push the plane backwards, all the way back to Ohio. I do not want to be here. I do not want to be here at all.
It is then that I realize that no matter what, in the next few minutes I will be landing at the Tucson Airport. No matter what, there I will meet my aunt. And no matter what, I will be staying with her, completely across the country from the only family I have ever known.
And there is nothing I can do about it.
* * *
Miraculously, my flight left from Ohio at 3 P.M. and landed in Arizona at 4 P.M. At first I am amazed at what a fast flight that was - it seemed an awful lot longer - and then I remember the time change. Apparently Arizona is three hours behind Ohio, and my flight actually took four hours. That means it is 7 P.M. back at home, and it is as I pass the fast food booths at the edges of the terminals that I realize I’m starving. My stomach growls like a tiger, but as I weave among the people I pretend I hear nothing.
I’ve already picked up my bags; now all I have to do is find Aunt Joanna. The paper that Socie gave me before she dropped me off says that I am to meet my aunt Joanna at the fountain in the center of the Tucson Airport. It would be a hell of a lot easier to find her if I could find the fountain.
I am following a large mob of people, assuming they know where they are going, and hopefully that ‘where’ is near the fountain. Suddenly the crowd parts before me and I find myself facing a giant wall of glass and doors. The exit. This is not where I want to be, so I turn around and try to push my way back through the people. It’s like being a fish trying to swim upstream.
It seems like for every two steps forward, I am taking three more back, so finally I abandon politeness and shove my way through everyone. As soon as I am out of the crowd, I find myself facing the fountain. It is much smaller than I thought it would be. Here I was, expecting something grand, like those fountains in Italy with all the intricate marble statues, and instead this fountain is more like something you would find in a park. It is less than six feet in every direction. I find myself a bit disappointed.
I sit down on one of the benches facing the fountain and glance furtively at everyone milling around in the area. I have absolutely no idea what Aunt Joanna looks like, so I am hoping she will be the one to find me. There are no people here who could possibly be my aunt; at least, not unless she happens to be a transvestite or of a different race. To my right, there is a blond-haired teenage boy. Beyond him, a business-like man taps away on an iPad. On the opposite side of the fountain, there is a Hispanic woman chasing around six little dark-haired children. She is the picture of efficiency, somehow managing to give the youngest a bottle, another a pacifier, break up a fight, and tie a shoe at the same time. She notices me staring and gives me a soft smile, but I just look away. I watch again, though, as the woman’s husband, also Hispanic, walks up. They embrace each other, tears running down her cheeks, and I cannot help but wonder where he has been.
Just then, the businessman accidentally knocks his briefcase off the bench and its contents spill everywhere. The teenage boy bends down to help the man pick up all of the papers, wallets, and checkbooks and the businessman thanks him. The Hispanic man jumps in instantly as well to help, but to him, the businessman says nothing.
As the businessman is handed the last of the contents, he checks through his briefcase to make sure he has everything.
“Hey!” he cries suddenly, jumping up. The six children cower behind their mother, shocked at this man’s suddenly ferocious tone of voice. “Where’s my wallet?”
I am the only one who notices the teenage boy take off running through the crowd.
“You!” the businessman accuses, whirling to face the Hispanic man. “Security!” he yells. “This man stole my wallet!”
The man’s eyes get huge and he holds his hands up in the air. In a heavy accent, he proclaims, “Sir! I take nothing!”
Security officers in navy suits suddenly leap in from every direction and in less than a second, the Hispanic man is on the ground. They cuff his hands behind his back and then drag him to his feet again, searching his pockets far more roughly than is necessary. But the wallet is not on the ground, or under a bench, or beneath the fountain, and no matter how rough they are with this Hispanic man, they cannot find the wallet on him either.
Suddenly, the Hispanic man looks at me, for I am the only person who saw this incident. “Tell them!” he cries. “Tell them I take nothing!”
The officers look at me expectantly. My mind flashes to the teenage boy who ran through the crowd. I blanch, and all I want is to stay out of this dilemma.
“I... I’m sorry,” I whisper, and jump off the bench to begin walking in the opposite direction. I glance back over my shoulder only once, and I am horrified to see that the Hispanic man is being dragged away by two officers. Another is questioning the businessman, who is adamant that it was him who stole the wallet. One more is doing a poor job holding back the Hispanic woman’s children, who are crying and holding out their arms to their dad as though they could reach him across the enormous space. Another officer is holding back the woman, who is sobbing and yelling something in Spanish. He just got back, and is already being taken away again.
I look straight ahead of me, only to see the teenage boy from before duck out of a bathroom, his pockets heavy with lies and a brand new wallet.
Spoiler
You're probably mad right now, but sorry! This event was crucial. It's important later on, contains some foreshadowing, and exposes you to some of the plot. 
* * *
I am walking so fast through the airport, head down, that I collide with a skinny strawberry blond woman. When she puts her hand on my shoulder to steady me, I jump. I keep thinking one of the security officers is going to come after me for not telling them what I knew.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “I’m just looking for... you, actually, I believe.” She holds up a piece of paper that has my school picture from last year printed on it. My God, I think, they are coming after me. “I’m Jo!” She wraps me in a hug and, surprised by this sudden contact, I lean back. “Joanna,” she amends, pulling back to smile at me.
She is much tinier and more touchy-feely than I thought she would be. It’s going to be a long two years.
“You must be Riley,” she gushes. “I know, it’s weird, I’m sorry that we’ve never met before. Do you want me to carry something? Are you hungry? How was your flight?” And this is the way it is the entire way out of the airport. Aunt Joanna does not shut up. It’s like she’s trying to make up for all the years we’ve spent apart.
We push our way out the heavy exit doors, the area around which is considerably less crowded than it was before. Aunt Joanna is doing enough talking for the both of us; all I have to do is nod affirmatively or give an occasional “uh-huh” and I can space out until she takes a breath.
Here, the ground breathes. Heat seeps from the asphalt like heavy sweat and in every direction the distance fades to waves. I have heard of mirages before, but I have never actually seen them. Arizona so far: a whole lot of hot barren nothingness. Not too unlike hell.
The parking lot is enormous and houses more cars than I've ever seen before in my life. There's everything from pieces of junk to BMWs, some silver, some green, some with different colors on every panel, and all are side by side. I'm sure glad Aunt Joanna knows where she is going.
She stops at the back end of an old red pickup truck and places her hand on its fender. "This," she tells me, "is Hortence."
I raise an eyebrow. "Hortence?"
"Yes," Aunt Joanna says. "She is older than dirt and completely unreliable."
"Oh," I say. Hortence is definitely the perfect name for this car. Its sides are riddled with dents - and a few disturbing small holes that I prefer to chalk up to extremely strong hail, rather than the alternative of bullet holes - and in general Hortence appears to have been through the ringer. Instead of a back window, there is some kind of thick plastic wrap that has been duct taped around the edges as a kind of makeshift window. There is no passenger sideview mirror. "She's...nice."
Aunt Joanna half smiles. "My other car's in the shop. I normally don't drive this one, it's just for Alex to drive mostly. It's our junk truck for grain and hay for the cows and such. We really should get a new one, like those fancy Tundras, but I can't bring myself to part with her," she explains.
Instantly, I have so many questions. Who is Alex? Aunt Joanna has cows? A Tundra in the desert?
As she climbs in the drivers' side, I open the door to the passenger side only to discover that there is no way my bags will fit up front. I will barely have room for my feet, let alone for a whole rolling suitcase.
"Oh!" Aunt Joanna exclaims, as though she has forgotten that I have luggage. She climbs back out of the car and bustles to the back end to pry down the truck bed gate.
"I put them back there?"
"Oh, yeah," she says. "They'll be fine."
I decide to believe her, so I heave them up into the bed and latch the gate. As soon as I have it upright, it falls back down again, and I have to slam it back up twice before it finally stays. I purse my lips and climb back up into the passenger seat. Aunt Joanna has pulled down the visor and is putting on a fresh coating of lipstick.
When she sees I am snapped in, she smiles at me; there is a small dot of bright red lipstick on one of her front teeth.
As she pulls out of the parking space, I reach forward to turn on the air conditioning. No matter how far I turn the dial in either direction, it does nothing. "It doesn't work," Aunt Joanna tells me. I make a face and try to roll down the window, but it's stuck.
Go figure.
Aunt Joanna pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway. It stretches as far as I can see both ahead of me and behind. I don’t think I’ve ever had such a clear view of the sky before. I feel both incredibly lost and completely sure of where I am at the same time.
After we have been driving only a few minutes down the highway, there is a loud thump from the back end. I look back over my shoulder and discover that Hortence’s tailgate has fallen down again. My pink and white polka dot bag, on top, catches the wind and goes flying out of the truck bed. It isn’t until it hits the ground and colors splatter all over the road that I remember it was my bag of paints.
“What was that?” Aunt Joanna asks.
“It was nothing,” I lie, because I don’t want to explain about painting and I don’t want her to fawn all over me and say she’ll buy me more; I can fend for myself. I usually avoid telling people about my painting, because when the Socies figured out that I liked art they tried to use it as a way to bond with me. And then they signed me up for that art therapy crap, which I only went to one session of, because my art is my own therapy and I don't need someone else there to tell me what it means.
I glance back over my shoulder to check that my suitcases aren’t going anywhere. Of course, those, the unimportant ones, aren’t budging. I see a small car run over my bag and I watch as some of the bottles of paint explode all over its tires. For some reason, this gives me a little bit of satisfaction; at least I am not the only one suffering.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out only to realize that there is a missed call from my mother. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her, because I do, but if I call her back it will only make me homesick. I might as well make it a quick and clean break. It is not me I am worried about; I can handle it. It’s her I want to make it easy for. So I slip it back into my pocket.
A sign along the right side of the road proclaims, “Welcome to Paducah! Population 4,897. Paducah High School - 1987 state volleyball reserve champions.” Obviously there is not much in Paducah.
“Well, this is Paducah,” Aunt Joanna says. “It’s pretty modest. But we have a lot of strawberries.” She smiles.
“I don’t like strawberries.”
“You’ll have to learn to. We eat them on everything.”
I scrunch my eyebrows. “Why?”
“It’s a strawberry farm. You didn’t think we’d be eating tomatoes all the time, did you?”
I blink. “A strawberry farm?”
She glances at me. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Apparently not.”
“Well. I live there and own it. Orchid Hill Farms. Over sixty acres of fields.”
“You farm it all by yourself?” It’s a bit amusing to picture her in overalls and a big straw hat, bending over some strawberry plants.
“No. I have workers.”
I am silent.
“Do you like horses?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I’ve never really been around them.”
“Well, we’ve got about twenty. You can learn to ride, if you want.”
I am amazed by the fact that she has horses, and not because I want to ride but because I’ve always wanted to paint them; hers would be excellent live models.
That is, once I buy more paints.
We are now in downtown Paducah, if you can even call it a downtown. Old buildings line both sides of the street; half of them are vacant. There is a bank, a pizza place, a Seven-Eleven. A library, an exterminator, a grocery store. Then, I notice an art store. My heart skips a beat and I peer in the windows as we drive by.
It is called Oasis, ironically, and it is not nearly as nice as my art store back home, but it will do. The aisles are narrow and dimly lit, but I can see the myriad of paints and it starts my heart racing. The only person in the store is the cashier.
Aunt Joanna turns on to a side street. I realize that the only stoplight in this town, the one that we just turned through, doesn’t work.
She takes a breath like she is going to say something, and doesn’t at first. Then, she finally does and the words all slide out at once, running together like one big word. “Iknowthishasgottobetough.”
I push my tongue into my cheek and try to keep myself from saying something I regret. I am sick of the apologies, the oh-this-has-got-to-be-hard’s, because no one understands and their sympathy means nothing to me.
“But, I mean, I’m here if you want someone to talk to. This has got to be quite a change.” It is then I realize she isn’t talking about my mom, just about moving. She is approaching a different side of this issue than everyone else has, and I feel myself relax.
“Thanks,” I say quietly. I won’t talk to her. But it’s nice to know that I could if I wanted to.
I look out the window again and do a double take - there is green. Green grass, at whatever this place is. Wrought-iron fencing goes along the road frontage and there is a gated entrance to a tree-lined driveway. “What is that?” I ask, awed.
She purses her lips. “That’s the Dunlap’s. Oroya Farms.”
Something about her face, the way she has suddenly tensed up, makes me suspect like Oroya Farms, and the Dunlap’s, are more than just business competitors. “Do they have strawberries too?” I ask.
“And about everything else under the sun,” she mutters.
I look at the property again catch the glimpse of a huge, white, pillared house on top of a small hill. I cannot imagine how many gardeners they must have on staff to keep all of that landscaping alive and thriving in this unforgiving heat.
Beyond the house, in the distance, there are rows and rows of some kind of bush, some of fruit trees, and viney plants that climb trellises. People walk through these rows, hunchbacked from leaning down to tend the plants. It is hot, and they are working, while I imagine the rich Dunlap’s are inside basking in their air conditioning.
Aunt Joanna turns onto a side road again and now there are fields everywhere. I can’t even tell which ones belong to which houses; still, none are anywhere near the par of Oroya Farms. These seem like small leisure establishments and not full out commercial farms.
The heat is overwhelming. I swear I can see it, hear it and smell it, even. It covers everything like a dusting and seems to seep from every surface. The inside of Hortence is like a sauna. Soon I will have sweated through my t-shirt.
Aunt Joanna turns one last time onto a long gravel driveway. Some kind of interesting plants - half-cactus, half-tree - grow up wild on both sides and I have the unsettling feeling that we are driving into a jungle. It is not a jungle, of course, it is still the desert, but you could have fooled me. We round a turn, the trees thin, and the house comes into view. It is modest; a single story and stucco with a clay tile roof. That is not what catches my attention, though. What I am really drawn to are the endless acres of fields behind it, and the barns beyond those. Farthest in the distance, there is a huge rise, the kind you could see the whole world from the top of.
“Welcome,” Aunt Joanna says, pulling into the driveway, “to Orchid Hill Farms.”
______________________________________________
Tah-dah!
Again, I don't really like the ending. But do I ever?Critiques, please? Be sure to read chapter one, if for some reason you read this first!
